I am thinking about windmills and lighthouses, after attending the Festival of Faith and Writing at Calvin College, Grand Rapids. FFW is a bi-annual, three-day April conference where 2000 writers, editors, and readers descend on campus to hear speakers intertwine their faith with their writing under an interfaith flag.
The Festival offers a buffet for the bibliophile. Speakers include children writers, theologians, journalists, young adult writers, memoirists, novelists, poets, editors—you get the picture. At such a buffet, one cannot eat it all, but one surely tries. In another blog or two I will share more about FFW’s speakers and their writings. But for now I want to write about one attendee I sat with in two keynote sessions.
Kelli is a whirling windmill, a handicapped, young woman who walks with two propelling crutches, carrying a heavy backpack. She is looking for a place to sit in an auditorium of bleachers and stadium chairs. I smile; she glows. I beckon; she whirls into a seat.
Kelli and I keep smiling through introductions and shuffle our bodies as people climb over us for middle seats. Because it is a little difficult to understand her voice, I have to ask again, “I am sorry. Where are you from?” It’s awkward; I mean her no disrespect. She keeps smiling. Actually, I swear this blonde-haired woman, wearing glasses and a pink sweater, glows with joy. When she says she is from Idaho, I respond, “Ah, there are good writers from Idaho,” thinking of the state’s renowned writing program. She enthusiastically agrees.
There isn’t much time to talk before writer Tobias Wolff takes the stage for a noon session on “Some Doubts About Certainty.” It’s comforting to sit next to Kelli and writing friend Linda. I sense we are kindred souls, lovers of well-crafted
words strung together in sentences, paragraphs, and books. I have this desire and curiosity to read what Kelli writes when her voice is freer to soar via a keyboard. Tobias Wolff gives a good talk and reads a profoundly well-crafted short story about a suppressed professor, who in a defiant way, finds her voice.
After the applause, Kelli and I agree it is great to be at Festival of Faith and Writing. She gets up from her seat in staccato jolts and is off for an afternoon loaded with workshops and seminars.
At 7:30 pm, back in the auditorium, it’s time to hear novelist Zadie Smith. Linda and I head to the same section and find glowing Kelli, already seated. We join her and listen to Zadie’s talk, “What is the purpose of writing ‘creatively’?” It has been a long day, and Zadie crams the brain. Now my uppermost thought is bed.
Kelli struggles to get up. A man hands her the stuffed backpack. Then, she stumbles down two steps and topples half over with her crutches barely keeping her up. I mentally freeze. How to assist this Festival of Faith and Writing sister?
Several of us ask, “Can we help? Are you alright, sweetie?”
“No, I’m fine,” she says with that smile, now strained a little. She clumsily adjusts backpack and crutches and says to me, “I’m just really tired; I’ve been up since 2 a.m.”
I’m alarmed. Yet, I must respect her decline for help. I realize Kelli is used to having only herself to rely on. Maybe she prefers that independent, risky freedom. But maybe I should know how to help her better.
“Be careful,” the mother-in-me says. It’s all I can muster.
Kelli gives a tired smile, sets a determined face, and whirls into the crowd, among several stares.
Sadly, I did not catch Kelli’s last name nor ask for her email address. And, I did not see her again during the festival.
Now I am home. After all the riches at Festival of Faith and Writing–all those brainy ideas, quotes, and books–I am thinking of Kelli, and here’s the reason: Kelli is no windmill. She’s a lighthouse. And somehow I missed receiving more of her light.